


Lightcatcher

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas seeks relief in Thranduil’s arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He hasn’t had a nightmare in _years_. When he tries to search his mind for the memory, it feels decades back, but this one was bright and vivid, full of fire and a harsh, ever-reaching eye. It leaves Legolas in a cold-sweat, his body heaving with each breath as he rushes back to the living realm, where he’s safe in the halls of his kin. His thin nightgown is glued to his body, his hair a slick mess across his forehead and shoulders. He reaches instinctively across the downy mattress, but his hand meets nothing but air. 

Through the carved wooden ceiling, starlight streaks the room. Legolas squints through it, rolling onto his side and searching the silken sheets, but he’s alone. He hasn’t been comforted for nightmares for a very, very long time, but this one was so horrifying that he needs that soft touch from another living creature, one that’s always promised to keep him safe. 

He calls, “Father,” into the darkness, but no answer comes. The king isn’t in their chambers, then. He could, perhaps, still hear his son’s cries from far away, but Legolas is a very long, long way from a child, and no one rushes to hold him. 

He slips out of bed on his own, padding across the cold floor to the wardrobe carved out of the far wall. He pulls from it a thin robe, forest-green, like most of Legolas’ clothes. Even after wrapping it around himself, he can smell the sweat and fear. At this hour, most will be asleep, and any few who were to witness his shame would surely keep it to themselves. He thinks of calling for his father again, putting more _need_ in it to beckon his want along, but it’s a foolish notion he buries. 

He drifts, instead, through the large doors that mark their bedroom. They air in their vast castle is fresh and lukewarm, pleasant along his feverish skin. The walk is refreshing, even though he moves like a wraith in pale skirts and the remnants of sleep. The occasional peeks of moonlight and scant torches light his way along the weaving steps. He knows where to find his father. There are only two places Thranduil would leave his bed for, and if it were the cellar for wine, he would’ve surely invited Legolas to come along. 

So Legolas isn’t surprised to see his king lounging regally back in his throne, surveying his kingdom in the dead of night. Those piercing eyes catch once on Legolas as he ascends the stairs, but still carry on. 

It isn’t until Legolas stands on the dais high in the center of their halls that he garners Thranduil’s true attention, a languid smile twisting those pale lips. “Legolas,” he greets, hushed for the privacy of the magic-shrouded throne, “you should be in bed.” His tone is vaguely admonishing; he’s never _quite_ given up that protective touch. At times like this, Legolas finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He nods his head in a formal bow and takes another step across the platform, so that his knees press against his father’s. He opens his mouth to explain himself but finds he doesn’t have the words. 

Instead, he lifts his hands to his king’s shoulders, and he rises up, legs parting around Thranduil’s. He slips into his father’s lap with a long-practiced grace, finding warmth and comfort in the feel of Thranduil’s strong thighs beneath him. One of Thranduil’s hands remains lazily across its armrest, the other reaching to trace the side of Legolas’ face. He shudders into the touch and presses into the familiar back of his father hand, nuzzling into the palm as it turns. Thranduil’s long fingers pet back through the golden strands that have fallen in front of Legolas’ ears. He has one tiny braid still reaching behind it, which Thranduil put there, like most of the decorations Legolas wears. Thranduil has expressed many times that he finds joy in still taking care of Legolas’ hair, so proudly like his own. Legolas enjoys those times just as much, where he can sit with his back just short of his father’s chest, and feel his long hair being brushed or twisted into little pleats. When he was younger, he used to ask to have flowers and leaves knotted in like his father’s seasonal crowns, but now he’s content with small but ornate braids. 

It might be a good exercise for this moment, something gentle and familiar, but Legolas thinks and wants a _stronger_ connection. Something wholly concrete. He draws one hand back along his father’s arm and cups his father’s hand against his cheek, holding it there as he explains, “I... have had one of the dark dreams.” He doesn’t have to say anymore, and he won’t. He wants to forget the blood that spilled in his mind, the anger in that single eye that pierced into him and _burned._ Thranduil’s quiet pulse keeps him from falling into it, beating in tandem with his own. 

Thranduil’s thumb rubs softly along his cheek. The grip is used to pull Legolas forward, Thranduil turning his fingers to make Legolas bow, and a gentle but firm kiss is pressed into his forehead. Thranduil lingers there, murmuring against Legolas’ skin, “It was only a dream, my child.” It was, and he knows it, but it’s good to hear the reassurance from his king. Legolas’ eyes fall closed, his being surging forward into their bond, all the places where they touch and Thranduil’s many kisses that blossom over his brow. Thranduil slowly litters him with love, soothing away the wrinkles of worry. Legolas half expected to be scolded again for such childish behaviour, running to his father over dreams, but Thranduil is strangely understanding. He kisses all the fear away, until Legolas is left with only the warmth and want that Thranduil’s presence always brings him. The hand still on Thranduil’s shoulder slides further to wrap around his neck, braced against his back, giving Legolas the leverage to pull forward. 

It shifts his rear against his father’s lap, and Legolas doesn’t miss the unmistakable bulge that’s formed. Thranduil is always particularly susceptible to attentions in his throne. Legolas isn’t surprised. But he is pleased, and he tilts his face in his father’s hands to signal that he’s well enough for more. Thranduil melds easily into the invitation, reining his kisses lower until he’s lingering along the line of Legolas’ lips. As soon as Legolas parts them, his father’s tongue is inside, claiming his mouth with the same ravenous hunger it always begins with. Every time this happens, he’s marked anew. Thranduil rushes into him, takes him as property of the king, but something to be treasured. His mouth is slowly mapped again and felt and sucked and licked and worshipped, while he waits patiently back and takes everything his father gives. He finds his own pleasure in the softness of Thranduil’s lips and the strong jut of his chin, the curve of his nose against Legolas’ cheek and the taste of his saliva. There’s something so wondrous in lying back and being ravished by a king. 

Thranduil doesn’t stop there. His arm slides around Legolas back, scooping him in by the waist, crinkling the thin fabric of the robe and nightgown, both gifts from his father. He allows himself to be drawn tight to his Thranduil’s chest, and he wriggles his bottom against his father’s lap of his own accord, encouraging this to escalate. He can feel the eager press of Thranduil’s restrained cock already rising between the soft cheeks of his ass, and though he grinds back into it, he can’t get enough friction between all their clothes. He makes a mewling noise against his father’s mouth and runs one hand down between them. He started this, and he’ll move it along. 

He parts his father’s silver robes with no trouble at all. He doesn’t even have to look, which is good, because Thranduil doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting his mouth go. Through the steady dream of kisses, Legolas deftly plucks all the ties aside, slips his fingers into his father’s trousers and rubs at the hard length that meets him, straining eagerly out of its confines. It’s easy enough to wrap his fingers around it, but he has to lift up on his knees to give room when he pulls it free. Thranduil makes a stifled moan against him, and it’s Legolas’ turn to tug away and press chaste kisses to his father’s forehead while he rubs the stiff cock between his father’s legs. 

There is no need for lubrication, as Legolas is told the silver elves use on occasion. There have been times, when the kingdom moves slow and perhaps they’re drunk on wine, when Thranduil will delight in fingering Legolas gently open, filing him with sweet tasting liquid to be stretched more or licked away. But now is a hushed, intimate simplicity, and Legolas’ Elven body is always ready to give and receive. The more he touches his father, squeezing lightly around the thick girth and rolling his thumb around the crowning tip, the more he can feel his own body respond. His skin is hot and his chamber is ready. It flexes and parts in greedy anticipation, growing wet with want. 

As Legolas parts his robes and positions himself above his father’s lap, Thranduil strokes the small of his back and murmurs, “I apologize. I should not have left you. I didn’t think you would still need your father at these times.” His breath is short but his tone is full of gravity, and Legolas pauses, having placed the spongy tip of his father’s cock against his slick and puckered entrance. 

He moans, “I will _always_ have need of my father,” as he pushes down. 

The first go is always the greatest, the hardest to take but such a welcome relief from emptiness. Thranduil’s cock is large, both thick and long, and it fills Legolas on that first little push, enough to make him gasp and duck forward, holding his forehead against his father’s. Thranduil holds onto his hips, squeezing reassuringly, and helps to guide him further down, but Legolas does most of it in fluid rolls of his hips. He takes Thranduil slowly not because he must but because he wants to; he wants to treasure the feeling and relish in it, the gradual bliss of being made whole. Each little push gives him more and more, his walls flexing to compensate, to stretch and wet enough to do so with ease. But the burn, the tightness, is always there. Thranduil is too large for anything else. He kisses Legolas’ lips as he eases in, whispering softly, “You feel as wondrous as always.”

“As do you,” Legolas promises. There is no feeling in the world like this completeness. It takes several small moments to make his way to the bottom, but he knows when he’s fully seated: when he’s full of as much cock as Thranduil has to give. He can feel the soft hair at the base of his father’s cock and the heavy balls below, the warm touch of skin and the cool fabric around it. At first, all he can do is drink it in, and he bends to capture Thranduil in a large, wet kiss, full of tongue. Thranduil takes him back while petting his hips, then clenching to signal he should move. 

He obliges, of course. Legolas lifts himself with his knees and taut thighs, sliding off and groaning as his father slips almost free, all the way to the tip, before Legolas thrusts himself back down, reclaiming his prize all at once. It earns him a grunt of pleasure from Thranduil, who helps him on the next lift and slams him down just as fast. Together, they find a rhythm, somewhere just between slow and frantic, the need to make it last as great as the need to take everything at once. There’s a powerful allure to making love in the king’s throne. Thranduil’s raw musk is just as intoxicating, and now Legolas has to wonder how he ever slept without it. He should’ve risen when his father did, and come here to ride his king’s cock like a good prince. Now he’s already sweat-slicked and barely dressed, but his father pets him and kisses him and doesn’t seem to mind. He’s stuffed full and set free, only to be impaled again and held captive with lust. All the while he tries to meet his father’s greedy kisses. 

When he can, he brushes his fingers over his father’s crown, though he doesn’t dare lift it off. He trembles every time he sinks back to his father’s cock. Sometimes, when the guests of their feasts have left or they’re out in the depths of their forest, Thranduil will lay him down in a bed of leaves or linens and fit the crown onto his head, making love to him with so many whispered reminders of being heir to this great kingdom. Legolas enjoys these times as much as any, but he does prefer to see the crown nestled on his father’s head, where it belongs. It seems to frame Thranduil with the beauty of true art, gives him a regal grace and commanding air. The crown has become an extension of him, just like the throne, and Legolas finds himself more and more enraptured with it. He slumps forward into his father, wrapping tightly around Thranduil’s shoulders and melding them into _one_ , while he dutifully bounces up and down in his father’s lap in the center of their kingdom. 

The pleasure is too much to bear. Legolas isn’t so young anymore that he should come so easily, but he can’t hold himself back under his father’s kisses and touches and the plundering of that thick cock inside him. He rides it to his end, making a pathetic keening sound as the pleasure takes him. It ripples through him like the light of the stars, makes him writhe and moan and grind himself as hard as he can against his father’s body, until it mounts inside him and there’s nowhere to go but out. He wants to scream, but instead he buries face in his father’s neck and _gasps_. His father pets his hair while he shudders to completion, spending himself inside his nightgown to grow a wet patch in the front. He hasn’t even been touched, but he doesn’t have to. Thranduil has only to look at him in that certain way, and everything he is comes apart. The pleasure is better than anything he could express. In moments, he’s nothing but a satiated shell.

His body is used to milk his father’s cock all the same. Legolas lies limply across his father’s broad chest as Thranduil continues to rock inside him, the lewd slapping sound of skin-on-skin far filthier without the haze of sex in Legolas’ ears. He tries to clench his ass to help, squeezing and convulsing around the large beast inside him, but it isn’t enough. He has to lick and kiss and suck at his father’s neck for it to finish, and finally Thranduil lets out a deep but quiet growl, his cock stilling and his seed rushing out into Legolas’ body. He can feel it pouring against his walls, clinging to his insides and drizzling out around the base of his father’s cock. It glues them together, and although Legolas is left sore and spent, he has no intention of moving. He knows he’s meant to be filled like this, and it brings him peace. 

Thranduil continues petting Legolas’ hair in the silence for a long while. The mess of Legolas’ robe hides their lap, though the king’s magic obscures the throne from a distance, anyway. Their intimacy is their own, and now more than ever, Legolas feels that unbreakable, primal bond. Finally, Thranduil purrs, “Perhaps we should return to our chambers.”

Legolas, already snuggled up in his father’s great arms, murmurs, “I am just as content here.”

“Humour me,” Thranduil chuckles. “Allow me to bathe you and put you to bed.” Legolas does grin at that; he’s much too old for such things, even from a lover. But the sweat is cooling on his skin again, and Thranduil’s heat can’t protect him from himself. He finally relinquishes and nods, only because he plans to settle back down on his father’s cock once they’re in the bath. 

He lifts tenderly off the throne, wincing at the release and the emptiness that follows and trying to squeeze and hold the seed he earned inside himself. Thranduil looks at him with such adoration before finally rising to his feet. 

They make their way back together, ensuring only good dreams.


End file.
